The Heptalogia
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THE HEPTALOGIA
By Algernon Charles Swinburne
Taken from THE COLLECTED POETICAL WORKS
OF ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, VOL. V
SWINBURNE'S POETICAL WORKS
I. POEMS AND BALLADS (First Series).
II. SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE, and SONGS OF TWO NATIONS.
III. POEMS AND BALLADS (Second and Third Series), and SONGS OF THE
SPRINGTIDES.
IV. TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE, THE TALE OF BALEN, ATALANTA IN CALYDON,
ERECHTHEUS.
V. STUDIES IN SONG, A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS, SONNETS ON ENGLISH DRAMATIC
POETS, THE HEPTALOGIA, ETC.
VI. A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY, ASTROPHEL, A CHANNEL PASSAGE AND OTHER POEMS.
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
THE
HEPTALOGIA
By
Algernon Charles Swinburne
1917
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
_First printed (Chatto), 1904
Reprinted 1904, '09, '10, '12
(Heinemann), 1917_
_London: William Heinemann, 1917_
* * * * *
THE HEPTALOGIA
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL 373
JOHN JONES'S WIFE 375
THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE 396
THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE 400
LAST WORDS OF A SEVENTH-RATE POET 406
SONNET FOR A PICTURE 421
NEPHELIDIA 422
* * * * *
SPECIMENS OF MODERN POETS
THE HEPTALOGIA
OR
THE SEVEN AGAINST SENSE
A CAP WITH SEVEN BELLS
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM
IN A NUTSHELL
One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is:
Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.
What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under:
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.
Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt:
We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?
Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover:
Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.
Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight:
Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.
Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels:
God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.
Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which:
The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.
More is the whole than a part: but half is more than the whole:
Clearly, the soul is the body: but is not the body the soul?
One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two:
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.
Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks:
Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.
Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew:
You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.
Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock:
Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.
God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see:
Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.
* * * * *
JOHN JONES'S WIFE
I
AT THE PIANO
I
Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist
grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts
decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed
for storm's play!
II
Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed--
Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast
since frost breathed--
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,--bloom
frost bequeathed?
III
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked
grate's screech?
Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's
beach
Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a
toothful in each.
IV
Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops
them and grins--
Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled
their fins--
Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our
sins!
V
Years blind and deaf use the soul's joys as refuse, heart's peace as
manure,
Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last
year, just as pure:
Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's
stink's cure.
VI
Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt--flies
caught in time's mesh!
Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and
stews flesh;
Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them
afresh.
VII
Old times left perish, there's new time to cherish; life just shifts
its tune;
As, when the day dies, earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;
Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!
II
BY THE CLIFF
I
Is it daytime (guess),
You that feed my soul
To excess
With that light in those eyes
And those curls drawn like a scroll
In that round grave guise?
No or yes?
II
Oh, the end, I'd say!
Such a foolish thing
(Pure girls' play!)
As a mere mute heart,
Was it worth a kiss, a ring,
This? for two must part--
Not to-day.
III
Look, the whole sand crawls,
Hums, a heaving hive,
Scrapes and scrawls--
Such a buzz and burst!
Here just one thing's not alive,
One that was at first--
But life palls.
IV
Yes, my heart, I know,
Just my heart's stone dead--
Yes, just so.
Sick with heat, those worms
Drop down scorched and overfed--
No more need of germs!
Let them go.
V
Yes, but you now, look,
You, the rouged stage female
With a crook,
Chalked Arcadian sham,
You that made my soul's sleep's dream ail--
Your soul fit to damn?
Shut the book.
III
ON THE SANDS
I
There was nothing at all in the case (conceive)
But love; being love, it was not (understand)
Such a thing as the years let fall (believe)
Like the rope's coil dropt from a fisherman's hand
When the boat's hauled up--"by your leave!"
II
So--well! How that crab writhes--leg after leg
Drawn, as a worm draws ring upon ring
Gradually, not gladly! Chicken or egg,
Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king
(Take my meaning at least) that I beg?
III
Not so! You were ready to learn, I think,
What the world said! "He loves you too well (suppose)
For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink--
Like a flower, their flame flashes--a rosebud, blows--
Then it all drops down at a wink!
IV
"Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vine
The vinedresser passing it sickens to see
And mutters 'Much hope (under God) of His wine
From the branch and the bark of a barren tree
Spring reared not, and winter lets pine--
V
"'His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cup
That a man beholding (not tasting) might say
"Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up,
Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away--
Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!"
VI
"'Let it rot then!' which saying, he leaves it--we'll guess,
Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much--
Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less,
Bud at an eye's glance, flower at a touch--
'Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?'--'Yes!'
VII
"Note the hitch there! That's piteous--so much being done,
(He'll think some day, your lover) so little to do!
Such infinite days to wear out, once begun!
Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe--
Overhead too there's always the sun!"
VIII
Oh, no doubt they had said so, your friends--been profuse
Of good counsel, wise hints--"where the trap lurks, walk warily--
Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice!
For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie--"
You were cautious, God knows--to what use?
IX
This crab's wiser, it strikes me--no twist but implies life--
Not a curl but's so fit you could find none fitter--
For the brute from its brutehood looks up thus and eyes life--
Stoop your soul down and listen, you'll hear it twitter,
Laughing lightly,--my crab's life's the wise life!
X
Those who've read S. T. Coleridge remember how Sammy sighs
To his pensive (I think he says) Sara--"most soothing-sweet"--
Crab's bulk's less (look!) than man's--yet (quoth Cancer) I am my size,
And my bulk's girth contents me! Man's maw (see?) craves two things--
wheat
And flesh likewise--man's gluttonous--damn his eyes!
XI
Crab's content with crab's provender: crab's love, if soothing,
Is no sweeter than pincers are soft--and a new sickle
Cuts no sharper than crab's claws nip, keen as boar's toothing!
Yet crab's love's no less fervent than bard's, if less musical--
'Tis a new thing I'd lilt--but a true thing.
XII
Old songs tell us, of all drinks for Englishmen fighting, ale's
Out and out best: salt water contents crab, it seems to me,
Though pugnacious as sailors, and skilled to steer right in gales
That craze pilots, if slow to sing--"Sleep'st thou? thou dream'st
o' me!"
In such love-strains as mine--or a nightingale's.
XIII
Ah, now, look you--tail foremost, the beast sets seaward--
The sea draws it, sand sucks it--he's wise, my crab!
From the napkin out jumps his one talent--good steward,
Just judge! So a man shirks the smile or the stab,
And sets his sail duly to leeward!
XIV
Trust me? Hardly! I bid you not lean (remark)
On my spirit, your spirit--my flesh, your flesh--
Hold my hand, and tread safe through the horrible dark--
Quench my soul as with sprinklings of snow, then refresh
With some blast of new bellows the spark!
XV
By no means! This were easy (men tell me) to say--
"Give her all, throw your chance up, fall back on her heart!"
(Say my friends) "she must change! after night follows day--"
No such fool! I am safe set in hell, for my part--
So let heaven do the worst now he may!
XVI
What they bid me? Well, this, nothing more--"Tell her this--
'You are mine, I yours, though the whole world fail--
Though things are not, I know there is one thing which is--
Though the oars break, there's hope for us yet--hoist the sail!
Oh, your heart! what's the heart? but your kiss!'
XVII
"Then she breaks, she drops down, she lies flat at your feet--
Take her then!" Well, I knew it--what fools are men!
Take the bee by her horns, will your honey prove sweet?
Sweet is grass--will you pasture your cows in a fen?
Oh, if contraries could but once meet!
XVIII
Love you call it? Some twitch in the moon's face (observe),
Wet blink of her eyelid, tear dropt about dewfall,
Cheek flushed or obscured--does it make the sky swerve?
Fetch the test, work the question to rags, bring to proof all--
Find what souls want and bodies deserve!
XIX
Ah, we know you! Your soul works to infinite ends,
Frets, uses life up for death's sake, takes pains,
Flings down love's self--"but you, bear me witness, my friends!
Have I lost spring? count up (see) the winter's fresh gains!
Is the shrub spoilt? the pine's hair impends!"
XX
What, you'd say--"Mark how God works! Years crowd, time wears thin,
Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own,
And you'll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin,
Never heeding how life moans--'more flesh now, less bone!'
For that cheek's worn waste outline (death's grin)
XXI
"Pleads with time still--'what good if I lose this? but see--'"
(There's the crab gone!) "'I said, "Though earth sinks,"'" (you perceive?
Ah, true, back there!) your soul now--"'"yet some vein might be
(Could one find it alive in the heart's core's pulse, cleave
Through the life-springs where "you" melts in "me")--
XXII
"'"Some true vein of the absolute soul, which survives
All that flesh runs to waste through"--and lo, this fails!
Here's death close on us! One life? a million of lives!
Why choose one sail to watch of these infinite sails?
Time's a tennis-play? thank you, no, fives!
XXIII
"'Stop life's ball then!' Such folly! melt earth down for that,
Till the pure ore eludes you and leaves you raw scoriae?
Pish, the vein's wrong!" But you, friends--come, what were you at
When God spat you out suddenly? what was the story He
Cut short thus, the growth He laid flat?
XXIV
Wait! the crab's twice alive, mark! Oh, worthy, your soul,
Of strange ends, great results, novel labours! Take note,
I reject this for one! (ay, now, straight to the hole!
Safe in sand there--your skirts smooth out all as they float!)
I, shirk drinking through flaws in the bowl?
XXV
Or suppose now that rock's cleft--grim, scored to the quick,
As a man's face kept fighting all life through gets scored,
Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick,
Flat and foul as man's life here (be swift with your sword--
Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)
XXVI
--Say it let the rock's heart out, its meaning, the thing
All was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned--
Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps--since it lies, such a ring
Of pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand
(Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand--(no king!)
XXVII
Blame the cleft then? Praise rather! So--just a chance gone!
Had you said--"Save the seed and secure souls in flower"--
Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con,
Till one day you shrug shoulders--"Well, gone, the good hour!"
Till one night--"Is God off now? or on?"
IV
UP THE SPOUT
I
Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!
Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?
Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay--
Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due--
Promising--not to pay?
II
For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;
Burst worst fate's weights in one burst gun?
A man's own yacht, blown--What? off land?
Tack back, or veer round here, then--queer!
Reef points, though--understand?
III
I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!
Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!
Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;
Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged--
Clogged, water-logged, her load!
IV
Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away!
No show now how best plough sea's brow,
Wrinkling--breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,
Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,
With twinkling wrinkles--eh?
V
Sea sprinkles winkles, tinkles light
Shells' bells--boy's joys that hap to snap!
It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite
God's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge--
Not proper, is it--quite?
VI
See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!
Crank plank, split spritsail--mark, sea's lark!
That grey cold sea's old sprees, begun
When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,
All water--just God's fun!
VII
Not bright, at best, his jest to these
Seemed--screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!
When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please
Some dumb new grim great whim in him
Made Jews take chalk for cheese.
VIII
Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowls
Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped the plaice in face:
None heard, 'tis odds, his--God's--folk's howls.
Now, how must I apply, to try
This hookiest-beaked of owls?
IX
Well, I suppose God knows--I don't.
Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes
Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont
Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud
With birds' words--No! he won't!
X
One never should think good impossible.
Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse--
His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible
By spy--spring's air takes there no care
To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!
XI
But gold bells chime in time there, coined--
Gold! Old Sphinx winks there--"Read my screed!"
Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined
(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth--
At once all three purloined!
XII
I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,
(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)
John's shirt, my--no! Ay, so--the lout!
Let yet the door gape, store on floor
And not a soul about?
XIII
Such men lay traps, perhaps--and I'm
Weak--meek--mild--child of woe, you know!
But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.
Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn--you spawn
Of Jewry! Just in time!
V
OFF THE PIER
I
One last glance at these sands and stones!
Time goes past men, and lives to his liking,
Steals, and ruins, and sometimes atones.
Why should he be king, though, and why not I king?
There now, that wind, like a swarm of sick drones!
II
Is it heaven or mere earth (come!) that moves so and moans?
Oh, I knew, when you loved me, my soul was in flowerage--
Now the frost comes; from prime, though, I watched through to nones,
Read love's litanies over--his age was not our age!
No more flutes in this world for me now, dear! trombones.
III
All that youth once denied and made mouths at, age owns.
Facts put fangs out and bite us; life stings and grows viperous;
And time's fugues are a hubbub of meaningless tones.
Once we followed the piper; now why not the piper us?
Love, grown grey, plays mere solos; we want antiphones.
IV
And we sharpen our wits up with passions for hones,
Melt down loadstars for magnets, use women for whetstones,
Learn to bear with dead calms by remembering cyclones,
Snap strings short with sharp thumbnails, till silence begets tones,
Burn our souls out, shift spirits, turn skins and change zones;
V
Then the heart, when all's done with, wakes, whimpers, intones
Some lost fragment of tune it thought sweet ere it grew sick;
(Is it life that disclaims this, or death that disowns?)
Mere dead metal, scrawled bars--ah, one touch, you make music!
Love's worth saving, youth doubts, but experience depones.
VI
In the darkness (right Dickens) of Tom-All-Alone's
Or the Morgue out in Paris, where tragedy centuples
Life's effects by Death's algebra, Shakespeare (Malone's)
Might have said sleep was murdered--new scholiasts have sent you pills
To purge text of him! Bread? give me--Scottice--scones!
VII
Think, what use, when youth's saddle galls bay's back or roan's,
To seek chords on love's keys to strike, other than his chords?
There's an error joy winks at and grief half condones,
Or life's counterpoint grates the C major of discords--
'Tis man's choice 'twixt sluts rose-crowned and queens age dethrones.
VIII
I for instance might groan as a bag-pipe groans,
Give the flesh of my heart for sharp sorrows to flagellate,
Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones,
(Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate)[1]
Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;
IX
My skin might change to a pitiful crone's,
My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed,
My features, in fact, to a series of loans;
Thus much is conceded; now, you, concede
You would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?
[Footnote 1: First edition:--
And my face bear his brand--mine, that once bore Love's badge elate!]
* * * * *
THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE
Said a poet to a woodlouse--"Thou art certainly my brother;
I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole;
And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother,
In the colours shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.
"Yea," the poet said, "I smell thee by some passive divination,
I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;
What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,
Had the aeons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse.
"The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,
Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test;
Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,
And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best."
"Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stick
To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight:
Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,
On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate."
"Notwithstanding which, O poet," spake the woodlouse, very blandly,
"I am likewise the created,--I the equipoise of thee;
I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie
The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.
"I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,
And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush:
Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,
And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.
"I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,
Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee:
And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,
Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.
"And I sacrifice, a Levite--and I palpitate, a poet;--
Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?
Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic;
Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursed me? look! approve me! I
have wings.
"Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you
mist-like,
And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod:
We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,
And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.
"For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,
Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms,
Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels;
And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.
"Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;
Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?
For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,
Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.
"Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passion
See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;
Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,
Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.
"Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,
Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars
that blink;
All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsed,
While he makes his mundane music--AND HE WILL NOT STOP, I THINK."
* * * * *
THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE
IDYL CCCLXVI
THE ACCOMPANIMENTS
1. THE MONTHLY NURSE
2. THE CAUDLE
3. THE SENTENCES
THE KID
1. THE MONTHLY NURSE
The sickly airs had died of damp;
Through huddling leaves the holy chime
Flagged; I, expecting Mrs. Gamp,
Thought--"Will the woman come in time?"
Upstairs I knew the matron bed
Held her whose name confirms all joy
To me; and tremblingly I said,
"Ah! will it be a girl or boy?"
And, soothed, my fluttering doubts began
To sift the pleasantness of things;
Developing the unshapen man,
An eagle baffled of his wings;
Considering, next, how fair the state
And large the license that sublimes
A nineteenth-century female fate--
Sweet cause that thralls my liberal rhymes!
And Chastities and colder Shames,
Decorums mute and marvellous,
And fair Behaviour that reclaims
All fancies grown erroneous,
Moved round me musing, till my choice
Faltered. A female in a wig
Stood by me, and a drouthy voice
Announced her--Mrs. Betsy Prig.
2. THE CAUDLE
Sweet Love that sways the reeling years,
The crown and chief of certitudes,
For whose calm eyes and modest ears
Time writes the rule and text of prudes--
That, surpliced, stoops a nuptial head,
Nor chooses to live blindly free,
But, with all pulses quieted,
Plays tunes of domesticity--
That Love I sing of and have sung
And mean to sing till Death yawn sheer,
He rules the music of my tongue,
Stills it or quickens, there or here.
I say but this: as we went up
I heard the Monthly give a sniff
And "_if_ the big dog makes the pup--"
She murmured--then repeated "if!"
The caudle on a slab was placed;
She snuffed it, snorting loud and long;
I fled--I would not stop to taste--
And dreamed all night of things gone wrong.
3. THE SENTENCES
I
Abortive Love is half a sin;
But Love's abortions dearer far
Than wheels without an axle-pin
Or life without a married star.
II
My rules are hard to understand
For him whom sensual rules depress;
A bandbox in a midwife's hand
May hold a costlier bridal dress.
III
"I like her not; in fact I loathe;
Bugs hath she brought from London beds."
Friend! wouldst thou rather bear their growth
Or have a baby with two heads?
IDYL CCCLXVI
THE KID
My spirit, in the doorway's pause,
Fluttered with fancies in my breast;
Obsequious to all decent laws,
I felt exceedingly distressed.
I knew it rude to enter there
With Mrs. V. in such a state;
And, 'neath a magisterial air,
Felt actually indelicate.
I knew the nurse began to grin;
I turned to greet my Love. Said she--
"Confound your modesty, come in!
--What shall we call the darling, V.?"
(There are so many charming names!
Girls'--Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab:
Boys'--Mahershahal-hashbaz, James,
Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)
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